Allamu mounted the muddy path to the top of the rise where he had last seen Sabit. The area was strangely quiet. The distant rush of the waterfall and the huffing of his own breath were the only sounds Allamu heard on his climb.
Reaching the ridge of the hill, Allamu looked over the far side. A slope of loose pebbles, like a giant funnel, stretched out before him. At its base was a wide, dark hole.
“Keep away from the edge, unless you want to die like Sabit,” came a deep voice. Looking up, Allamu saw a tall man approaching. His head was shaved bald and he had a pair of long mustaches flowing from his lips. In his hand was a long wooden staff, the bottom end resting on the edge of the funnel of loose stones. He wore the chain-and-leather harness favored by slave drivers.
“Sabit isn’t dead,” Allamu growled, moving toward the man, the knife in his hand held loosely in a reverse grip.
“I wish it weren’t true,” the slave catcher said, watching the sharp tip of Allamu’s blade. “I stood to make a small fortune off of her. I’ll just have to content myself with selling you and the archer.”
With a sudden movement, he flicked the end of his staff into the air. A shower of pebbles and dirt pelted Allamu’s face. Raising his arms to shield his eyes, Allamu left himself open and blind for just a moment.
The slave catcher’s staff struck Allamu’s knee. The blow was light, but made up for its softness with precision. Allamu’s knee suffered no lasting injuring, but the impact caused it to bend, throwing the man from Urom off balance.
A sudden strike to the chest sent Allamu back down the muddy slope he had just climbed, tumbling to the bottom and lying very still.
Wayfarings of Sabit: Pursuit is copyright (c) 2017 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/